


The Five Letters Harry Wrote Louis, and the One He Sent

by aimmyarrowshigh



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe - High School, Childhood Friends, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, M/M, Road Trips, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimmyarrowshigh/pseuds/aimmyarrowshigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis has been a part of Harry’s life since before he was born.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Five Letters Harry Wrote Louis, and the One He Sent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TichMarie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TichMarie/gifts).



> IT'S NOT TOO LATE TO POST CHRISTMAS FIC. This is for the lovely TichMarie as part of Keysmash's Spread the Love Holiday Exchange! I hope this somewhat fills the prompt you wanted, and that you had a wonderful holiday season. :) ILY!

Louis has been a part of Harry’s life since before he was born. 

Anne was twenty-six and Gemma just over a year old when the new next-door neighbor went into labor on Christmas Eve. Harry wasn’t anything yet, just a dream. But Anne bundled Gemma into all of her warm winter woolens and drove next-door neighbor Johanna to the hospital and waited there for hours until Gemma fell asleep and Louis was born. 

The next day, Anne and Gemma went back to visit and gave Johanna a little hand-me-down Christmas-striped newborn beanie hat for tiny Louis. A week later, Johanna and her baby were on Anne’s doorstep with a gift tin of cheap chocolates for the new year and a tiny, mewling squall, respectively. From that day on, Johanna was Jay and the pairs were thick as thieves: Anne and Jay swapped casserole dinners and cups of tea; Gemma and Louis shared toys and clothes and, the next December, a cheerful teddy bear picnic birthday party.

Once Harry came along, Gemma was old enough to see Louis as her real live imaginary friend, and Louis was old enough to see tiny Harry as something of a cross between competition and a favorite doll. Where Gemma had always played very nicely with younger Louis, plying him with teddy bears and floppy hats, Louis was caught more than once trying to smuggle Harry out of his bassinet to stuff him into costumes or bouncy chairs. “Come play,” he insisted, hauling Harry along roughly by the armpits as his round baby head lolled. “Up!”

“No, Louis, you have to be very gentle with Harry,” Jay explained quietly, after Anne lifted Harry out of harm’s way and secured him in a tall crib with bars. Louis was just about to turn two and a half, and listened with big eyes. “He’s very small and he needs his friend Louis to take special care of him, right?” 

Louis nodded. He stood on tip-toe and reached through the bars of the crib to pat the bottom of Harry’s little foot. Harry’s belly made a gurgling noise and he kicked out, giggly.

“Gentle,” Louis informed Jay. “Nice.”

She kissed his head, and Anne did, too, which is how he knew that being nice to Harry was a good thing. Even if he was quite small. 

**001.**  
It’s very lonely around the house once Gemma and Louis both start kindergarten. Harry has had tea parties every day with his bears and his trusty stuffed giraffe, and he even made up a swell joke about him that Louis laughed at so hard milk shot out of his nose. He’s tried on all of Mum’s clothes and colored in all of his books. But it’s too quiet with only Mum and Dusty in the house. And without Louis there, Harry is much more prone to being caught in his mischief, because Louis isn’t there to teach him how to be sneaky.

The best part of every day is three o’clock, when Mum bundles Harry up in his winter clothes and they go down to the corner to collect Gemma and Louis from the big yellow school bus. (Louis always stays at Harry’s house until Jay is finished with work, and sometimes they both stay for dinner, too. Those nights are Harry’s favorites, even though he usually gets a stomachache from laughing too much.)

While Gemma reads her library books, Louis and Harry watch _Power Rangers_ and _Pokemon_ , even though it’s a little bit scary. Then Mum makes Louis come do his homework, too, and Harry always watches. He wants to go to school, too, but he isn’t a big kid yet. (Sometimes, Louis is a little bit mean when he tells Harry that. But it’s still true.)

After the Christmas tree’s been decorated, they spend more time outside after school than inside. Big, puffy snowpants are the most annoying thing to wear, and Harry always cries a little bit, but it’s worth it to build snowlumps with Louis. He calls them snowmen, but Harry doesn’t really think they look like men at all. 

Harry takes a hot bath after dinner and comes downstairs in his reindeer PJ’s to see what Gemma had been so excited about all day. Gemma, unlike Louis, does not seem to get excited enough to jump up and down very often, but today she had, and she’d even been told by Mum to _simmer down_. Usually, only Louis gets told to _simmer_.

Apparently staying up late has its perks: Gemma has hot cocoa. It’s sticking to her lip like a mustache, so Harry knows. He climbs up onto his chair and puts his elbows right on the table to watch her.

“Whatcher doing?”

“I’m writing Christmas cards,” Gemma informs him. “For everybody in my class. See?”

She holds up a green triangle made of construction paper. It has writing on it, and Harry can find most of the letters from his name on it. _—RRY –ST—S_ are there!

“Make me one,” he demands. “I will make you back.”

“I don’t know,” Gemma sighs, and selects a white crayon. “You should only give Christmas cards to people you like.”

“Hey!” Harry tries to kick her knees under the table, but she’s too far away. “You like me!” He cranes his neck up. “Doesn’t she like me, Mum?”

Anne sets a sippy-top mug of cocoa down for Harry, too, and smooths his curls before kissing the top of his head. “Yes, of course Gemma likes you, sweetheart, and she’ll make you a Christmas card.”

Harry falls asleep before Gemma’s finished her stack of cards, but when he wakes up and pads down to the kitchen, a green construction paper tree with glitter ornaments is waiting for him at his place. It’s beautiful, so shimmery, and it must be very special for Gemma to make so many. She said that they were for people you like, so after he’s eaten some cereal, Harry sets off to make a Christmas card for Louis.

It takes a very long time, because he isn’t _really_ allowed to use scissors. Once he figures out how to work them open, though, making a triangle isn’t too hard, and he doesn’t cut himself even a little. Harry lies on his belly on the floor with his crayon in one fist and his tongue bit in his teeth for concentration, and copies out Gemma’s writing onto a new card just for Louis.

_WARRУ CHRi_ s  
T  
mAS

He doesn’t have any glitter, so Mum’s eye shadow will do. He swipes it across the blue paper tree in arcs like tinsel, and, in Harry’s own opinion, it looks very nice. He’s so excited to give it to Louis after school that he needs to gallop around yodeling for a while until Mum catches him and puts him in bed.

He can’t sleep. He’s too excited.

But when Louis and Gemma step off the bus, Louis’ face is stormy under the hood of his parka. He won’t even smile at Harry, and he always smiles at Harry. He kicks a lot of gray slushy snow with his boots on their way up the street to the Styles’ house.

He keeps pouting even as Anne helps all of the children to peel out of their winter gear. Harry keeps glancing furtively at Louis, and hopes against hope that his Christmas card will help him feel better.

“What’s wrong, Louis?” Anne asks, and brushes his hair out of his eyes. “Did you have a bad day at your class party?”

“I hate Christmas!” Louis yells, and then promptly starts to cry. Harry’s only seen Louis cry twice before, and he didn’t fall down this time. “It’s my birthday before it’s stupid Christmas, and nobody said happy birthday! Everybody else gets a special birthday, and I don’t, and it’s not fair that nobody cares about me just because it’s stupid _Christmas_.”

 

“Well, I think you’re very special,” Anne says, and she gives him a hug. “Now come on, let’s go to the kitchen. You can pick the snacks today, how about that?”

While she leads Louis and Gemma to the kitchen, Harry scuttles upstairs and hides his Christmas card for Louis deep in the bottom of his toy box. When he gets to the kitchen, grilled cheese and bacon are sizzling on the stove, and Harry wraps his arms around Louis’ middle in a tight hug.

 **002.**  
Harry is in first grade while Louis and Gemma are in third, which means they’re at the same school, but different wings. Harry is in the _baby wing_ as all of the big kids call it, where the cubbies are blue and the carpeting is orange, while it’s the first year that Gemma’s and Louis’ classes are up in the wing with real lockers and gray tile flooring. He almost never sees them at school as a result, but when he does, it’s usually very exciting. Sometimes Louis is being dragged to the principal’s office, or Gemma comes to deliver the teacher a note from the librarians. In the fall, Harry had been able to look out the window in Music Appreciation and see Louis out in gym class. He always stole the soccer ball from everyone else, but, Harry thought, he was the one who deserved it most, because Louis was the best.

Towards the beginning of December, after it’s become too cold for the gym classes to play soccer outside, Harry finishes his sculpture early in Art Appreciation. It’s a cat, he thinks, or it’s meant to be a cat. Mum will like it anyway. He’s sitting at the long table, contemplating whether paste could really taste as good as Niall says, when Ms. Cole calls him up to her desk.

“Harry,” she asks, “Could you please bring this note up to Mrs. Byrne in the library?” She smiles at him and hands over two small pieces of paper. “This is the note, this white one here, and this pink paper is your hall pass. When you get to the library, she’ll sign the other side for you, okay? Do you know how to get there on your own?”

Harry feels puffed as a Christmas turkey. Of course he can find the library on his own! And he’s never had a _hall pass_ before; it sounds terribly grown up. He knows Louis keeps, in a jar in his bedroom, a stack of ones that he’s had. Gemma wears a yellow sash on Tuesdays that means she doesn’t need a hall pass, because instead, she monitors who else doesn’t have one. (Gemma’s a bit of a nerd, Louis confided to Harry.)

It’s strange to wander the corridors by himself. He can hear lessons going on in the other classrooms, kindergarteners practicing the alphabet and fourth graders’ big voices singing in preparation for the Winter Concert over in Music Appreciation. He pauses by a second grade classroom to eavesdrop on a lesson about butterflies, which he likes a lot: he never knew before that they came from caterpillars. That’s sort of gross.

When Harry gets to the library, he gives Mrs. Byrne the note from Ms. Cole and is thanked profusely. There are big kids swarming all around the library, since it’s a Thursday.

“Hi, Louis!” Harry yells, and is promptly _shushed_. It doesn’t matter; he _never_ gets to see Louis during the day, and it makes him practically wriggle with delight. He likes Niall alright, but Louis is his very best friend.

Except he doesn’t look happy to see Harry. Louis is standing in a knot of taller boys, and he’s clutching a copy of _Captain Underpants_ to his chest. The biggest boy, James, pushes Louis’ shoulder and starts to laugh.

“Hey, Louis’ friends with a _baby_ ,” he crows. “Do you wear a _diaper_ , too?”

Harry frowns. He isn’t a baby, and neither is Louis.

“Shut up, James,” Louis snaps. He sounds sulky when he mutters, “Hiya, Harry.” To the other boys he explains, “Harry lives next door. His mother watches me after school so I don’t have to be in After School Club.”

Caterpillars are wriggling in Harry’s stomach as he walks back to his own classroom, in the stupid baby wing with its orange carpeting. He has to stop and sniffle a little, but definitely doesn’t cry, hiding his face in one of the water fountains.

After school, he goes straight up to his bedroom and doesn’t come down even for snickerdoodles. He hugs his trusty giraffe. And sulks.

“I brought you these,” Louis says from the doorway, holding out a plate of two cookies. “There was another one, but I ate it.”

Harry juts out his chin and turns away from Louis. All the same, an arm slings over Harry’s shoulders, and the platter of one-and-a-half cookies is set down in front of Giraffe’s feet. 

“It’s nothing personal,” Louis says. “You just can’t make baby mistakes like that in front of the big kids. James is mean enough to me anyway,” he mumbles.

It seems inconceivable that anyone would be mean to Louis. Harry turns, finally, to look at him. “Is he mean to you a lot?”

“Yeah, but it’s just ‘cause he’s an idiot,” Louis says dismissively. “He’s only jealous ‘cause everyone likes me better.” Louis squeezes Harry’s arms. “You like me better too, right?”

“Yeah.” Harry nods solemnly. 

“Do you want to split the last cookie?”

They do. Harry sees Louis in the library again the next week, but doesn’t say anything. He gives Louis a little thumbs’ up when James’ back is turned, and Louis gives him a thumbs’ up back. Maybe that will be their secret signal, for when they can’t talk, Harry thinks. Around them, the school descends into nondenominational winter holiday madness. Louis isn’t as sullen about Christmas as he used to be; Harry’s always careful, though, to wrap one present in birthday paper instead of Christmas paper. 

In Art Appreciation the week before winter vacation, Ms. Cole teaches the class to cut delicate folded-paper snowflakes and sugar them with silver glitter. Harry makes three, one for Mum, one for Gemma, and one for Louis, and glues them to red construction paper. Inside, he uses his very best handwriting – it’s a little curly, but he doesn’t know cursive yet – to write _MARRY CHRISTMAS!_

He’s going to save Louis’ for Christmas day properly, because Louis does like his birthday to come first. But he gives Mum and Gemma their cards after dinner that same night. Mum gives Harry a big hug and puts it right on the fridge, but after she’s walked away, Gemma laughs and pokes Harry’s arm.

“What?”

“You donut! You spelled ‘merry’ like ‘marry,’ like a wedding,” she laughs. “You just proposed to me and Mum!”

Harry scowls. When he gets back to his bedroom, he hides Louis’ card in the bottom of his toy box. That was another baby mistake, and he can’t make those around Louis. He’ll make a new card in the morning, even if it won’t be so pretty and sparkly.

 **003.**  
Sixth grade is a tough year for Harry. The thing is, everyone he knows keeps calling everything _gay_. Including Harry. So he gets alright grades and he likes to read and he can’t help how his hair grows. He tried cutting it off, but that looked even worse, when it started growing out again. 

But unlike the homework and the cafeteria food and the fact that their school basketball team can’t win a game, Harry – well, he doesn’t know, really, but he’s pretty sure that he really is gay. Or something; it’s not like he feels differently this year than he ever did before, but he suspects that maybe he’s supposed to, about girls at least, if he’s not gay. He held hands with Taylor on the zoo fieldtrip, but they were both more interested in the seals than each other. (Harry likes seals. They always look happy.) Meanwhile, two grades up, Louis is the apple of every girl’s eye. He’s already been tapped for the varsity soccer team when he gets to high school next year, or so he says, and in the fall musical, he was the best Danny Zuko Harry’s ever seen. Harry had been in the chorus of the play, and got to sing “Summer Lovin’” and the _bop-shoo-wadda-wadda_ s in “You’re the One That I Want.” Gemma had stage-managed, and took great pride in being allowed to boss Louis around when he couldn’t argue back.

At the cast party, when Harry went up to give Louis a hug and tell him that he’d been _amazing_ , he found out that Louis was dating the girl who played Frenchie. 

It’s just as well, Harry figures. Hannah’s really nice. She never complains when Louis lets Harry tag along on their French-fry-and-milkshake excursions on Friday nights, or anything like that. She brings her friend Stacey, and sometimes, Harry wonders whether in her mind – and Louis’ – they’re actually double-dates.

It becomes much clearer when Louis hands out invitations to his birthday party, set a week before Christmas. It’s a _boy-girl party_ , the first one that Louis’ given and the first Harry’s been invited to attend. Gemma will be there, too, which is the only reason Mum said yes: the invitation only has a question mark for the end time, which seems scandalous and a little nerve-wracking for all three Styleses. Jay promises though that '?‘ really means ‘ten.’ Louis is going around school promising the opposite, though. It raises Harry’s social status considerably to have been the only sixth grader invited. Not even Niall got a nod, and Louis likes Niall.

“Niall isn’t going to be a hit with the ladies,” Louis explains, slinging an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “Not until he gets those braces off. But you are, so you’re cool enough to come. Gotta keep the ladies happy, and there’s only so much Louis to go around.”

“Right,” Harry says. And squirms. 

“Hey,” Louis says more softly. He tweaks Harry’s cheek, right at the dimple. “Don’t be nervous. You’re gorgeous.” Then he laughs brightly, although his eyes look a bit strange. “For a boy, obviously.”

Harry glows hot anyway. _Louis thinks he’s gorgeous?_ “Thanks, I guess.”

Then Louis puts him in a headlock and musses up his hair until it hurts.

The night of the party, Harry spends a long time trying to arrange his hair so that it looks less like a fluff of cotton candy. He dresses as much like Louis as he can without actually having stolen Louis’ clothes, because everyone knows Louis is stylish – Niall even went out and bought TOMs shoes just because he saw Louis wearing a pair once. A few weeks ago, Louis leant Harry his good-luck scarf, a long paisley affair, before a Pre-Algebra test, and Harry’s worn it at home while doing his homework every day since. If he wears it to the party and Louis wants it back, he can act like that was his intention. If Louis lets him keep it, then – well… maybe that means something, right? Gemma’s always bringing home hoodies that belong to whatever boy she’s seeing, and Mum makes a big deal about it.

He has two gifts for Louis this year, and he wrapped them himself. (They even have little bows.) One is for tonight, just a video game and a card that says ‘Happy birthday, pal!’ But the other is for the night of his real birthday, when the clock strikes over to Christmas. Last time they hung out – double dated? – with Hannah and Stacey, they watched _Love, Actually_. Since Louis missed most of the movie because he was kissing Hannah the whole time, Harry’s bought him a DVD.

And he wrote him a card that just says, _Christmas is when you tell the truth. You are perfect to me. Marry Christmas._

Maybe it’s too bold by half, but Louis _is_ perfect, and he loves getting compliments, so if it fails, Harry can just play it off as a joke. It’s a foolproof idea, he thinks.

Until he arrives at the party. It’s wall-to-wall with eighth graders, and immediately Gemma leaves him at the door when she takes off with her friends – the debate club, science club, whatever. Music thumps in the walls, and there’s a pile of coats all jumbled by the door. Everyone’s drinking soda, at least.

Harry dumps his own coat on the pile and edges into the room. The only people here he knows are Louis, Hannah, and his own sister, so they’re who he sets off to find.

“Harry!” Louis yells, right at the middle of a knot of people. “Come here! It’s your turn!”

“My turn?” 

“We’re playing Seven Minutes in Heaven!” Louis waggles his eyebrows. “You’re up. Close your eyes, I’m gonna spin you and point you towards the girl you’re going in with. Hannah spins the girls.”

Harry swallows. “Alright.”

With a sinking feeling, Harry knows this is the closest he’ll get to Louis all night. There are too many other people there, people who aren’t just _that’s Harry; he lives next door and his mother used to watch me after school_. His shoulders brush up against Louis’ chest while Louis’ hands wrap around his biceps to spin him around. His breath smells like Orange Crush when it puffs over Harry’s face. 

“Okay!” Louis calls, once Harry is properly dizzy. “Open ‘em!”

Of course it’s Stacey. With crushing clarity, Harry knows that Louis only invited him tonight because Hannah and her friend asked him to. But that isn’t Stacey’s fault, so he gives her a smile anyway, and he follows her to the closet.

It’s dark, and it smells like galoshes. Either a very large spider or a very dusty faux fur collar is creeping ticklish across the back of Harry’s neck. He can’t even see Stacey, but he can hear her breathing, and smell the too-sweet vanilla of her perfume. (It doesn’t smell anything like Louis’ lucky scarf.)

“Hi,” she whispers. “This is embarrassing.”

“It’s okay,” Harry lies. “Erm, what are – I mean, you don’t have to kiss me. If you don’t want.”

“I want to,” Stacey says quickly. “Do you… not want to kiss me?”

It’s safer in the dark just to shake his head. 

“Oh.”

“It’s not you,” Harry says quickly. “You’re really nice. And like, pretty. I just… I like someone else.”

“Right,” Stacey says. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah.”

“If you weren’t coming on all of those dates for me,” she says slowly and softly, “Were you coming for Louis?”

Harry’s mouth is dry. But it’s dark, and Louis is outside the door with Hannah, gloating about how they’ve finally fixed Harry and Stacey up properly. He nods. When he answers, it sounds more like a bone-dust cough than words. “Yes.”

Stacey swoops in and kisses his cheek. “I won’t tell.” Then she shakes out her ponytail and messes up her hair, then Harry’s, and pulls one shoulder of her top askew just in time for Louis to throw open the door and whoop, clapping Harry on the back.

“Harry!” Louis yells, leading the crowd in a cheer. He squeezes an arm around Harry’s ribs. “My main man!”

Stacey grins at Hannah as she tucks her bra strap back under her shirt.

Louis doesn’t notice when Harry finds his coat on the pile just after and heads home. He leaves the birthday gift on the table, but when he’s back in his own room – still able to hear the party rocking next door – he hides the Christmas gift and its card deep in the bottom of his old toy box.

 **004.**  
Harry’s just finished the first semester of his Sophomore year and Louis is about to send off his college applications when they get permission to go on a road trip over Winter Break, just the two of them, to a music festival out on the West coast. Probably one of the biggest reasons Anne lets Harry go is that Louis has been Harry’s protector all through high school, ever since Harry joined the GSA in his first week of Freshman year, and now Louis will be leaving.

They pack up the car early, early on Monday morning. It’ll take two days to drive out to the festival, and that’s if they go ever-so-slightly over the speed limit the whole way and only pee in plastic bottles that they throw out the window and drive-thrus. (They’re teenage boys. It sounds fine to them.) The forecast is clear skies, and they’re both more than ready to get out of the freezing temperatures and into warmth again.

Neither of them packs much, but they do each bring a few pairs of clean underwear and some extra hoodies, plus the tent and some sleeping bags. Louis’ car is an old blue junker, but it has an iPod dock and a working heater. It smells like French fries all the time.

Harry named it Eileen. It’s his favorite car in the world. He was with Louis when she was bought, and Harry was the first person Louis drove in her. 

Anne and Jay kiss them both goodbye before they leave.

“If you’re lost, pull over before you start fiddling with the GPS,” Anne says.

Jay says, “If it’s dark, use your lights.”

They both say, “Call us to check in _every day_.”

Louis isn’t exactly a good driver, but it’s not like he’s a terrible driver. (He’s a mostly-awful driver. But Harry always feels safe with him anyway.) While they start off towards the first expressway on-ramp, Harry flicks through radio stations. _Every one of them_ is playing “All I Want for Christmas Is You.”

“Is there a law?” Louis asks. “Is that the only song allowed to be played during December?”

“I think you can also play ‘Wonderful Christmastime,’” Harry says thoughtfully. “I prefer this one.”

“Remember when we saw _Love, Actually_?” Louis asks. “You were too young for that movie back then.”

“I’m not that much younger than you.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Louis says. “You were still too young then. Eleven and thirteen’s a bigger difference than fifteen and seventeen.”

“What about fifteen and eighteen?” Harry asks, smirking.

“Shut up!” Louis groans, and pulls into a service station so they can fill the tank and get a few Monsters and Rockstars for the road. And a bag of Cheetos, the breakfast of champions. “Eighteen is _so old_. It’s an _adult_. I don’t _wanna_ be an adult.”

“You won’t be,” Harry assures him. “You’re still Louis. You’ve never changed before; why start now?”

Louis sticks out a tongue covered in orange powder, and just keeps driving. In a rush of roads and an endless soundtrack of indie music interspersed with Broadway soundtracks, they make their way West. The snow melts. They peel off their sweatshirts. On rural highways, Louis lets Harry drive, and it’s exhilarating: Louis keeps his hand over Harry’s on the gear shift, guiding him, and by the time they pull over somewhere in Colorado so Louis can take the wheel again, Harry is hard in his sweatpants.

Harry can’t remember ever not loving Louis. This trip is their last hurrah. He _has_ to tell him. In his pack, he has a card that says _I love you. Happy birthday. Merry Christmas._ (But he’d rather show him than tell him, and rather tell him than have to give him a stupid card with Snoopy on the front.)

They have to park a mile away from the campground. It’s balmy and warm, especially on skin that’s grown used to freezing wind, and the hike up the hill to the grassy hill where the festival will play is heavenly. Louis strips off his shirt to hang around his neck, and Harry wants, wants, wants to reach out and touch him.

They check in and both get slapped with blue wristbands made for screaming out that they’re underage. It doesn’t matter once they set up their tent, though, because Louis pulls a baggie of weed out of his rolled socks and they pack a bowl to start the weekend. (Harry only ever smokes with Louis. It just isn’t fun with anyone else. Louis gets cuddly when he’s stoned, which is a plus. Niall only ever gets hungry.)

Once they’re pleasantly blazed, Louis insists on getting a piggyback ride to the main stage. Harry is only too happy to oblige. It’s warm and he feels mellow and fuzzy in the best way, and Louis’ arms are glorious around his shoulders. He hooks his forearms under Louis’ thighs. The sun sets around them in a riot of fuchsia and periwinkle and orange, and the crowd presses in on every side. The only way to stay together is to stick even closer. Louis’ lips are up against Harry’s ear whenever he wants to speak.

Neither of them has ever heard of the opening band, but it doesn’t matter. Night’s fallen and the crowd all wave cell phones and lighters like so many fireflies. Louis sings random words in lieu of lyrics at the top of his lungs right into Harry’s ear.

It’s easily the best night of Harry’s life.

When they stumble back into their tent, Harry crawls in behind Louis and by the time he’s zipping the door shut, Louis’ already packing another bowl. Harry lights the camping lantern they’ve brought with them, and it casts ghost-story shadows on Louis’ jaw, lighting him from the bottom up with deep shadows.

The field around their tent is rowdy, but filters into densely rippling quiet as they – and probably everyone else – finish off their bowl. Louis shrugs back into a t-shirt, but it’s still warm enough that they don’t need to bundle up. 

“I’m really glad we came,” he says thoughtfully, resting his cheek against Harry’s shoulder. “I’m glad you came with me.”

“Me, too,” Harry agrees. It’s easy to put his arm around Louis’ shoulder. It’s just Louis. He’s known Louis as long as he’s been alive.

“You’re warm,” Louis coos, nestling closer. “Warm little Harry.”

“I’m not that little,” Harry reminds him. “I’m only two years younger than you. Two years and a bit.”

“But you’re not leaving,” Louis says, and he sounds like his heart is broken. “I’m leaving, and you aren’t. Because you’re little Harry.” He exhales a warm puff up against Harry’s neck. “And it figures, it figures that I just figured out this year that I want you to be _my_ little Harry, but I’m leaving, and you aren’t. And that’s not fair, not fair to you at all.”

Harry can’t breathe.

By the time he remembers how to inhale, Louis’ fallen asleep with his head on Harry’s thigh.

Louis acts for the rest of the weekend and the whole trip home like he’d never said anything, and when they get back to ice and snow, Harry buries his confession in the bottom of his old toy box.

 **005.**  
Gemma is halfway across the country finishing up her own finals when Harry bombs his last chance to pass Calculus. If he fails, he’ll need to retake the whole class, which puts him a semester behind, which means a fifth year.

At least Louis is in the same boat. This _is_ his second try at Calc, and he almost certainly bombed, too, since he’s sitting behind Harry anyway and probably copying from his blue book.

It’s not that Harry doesn’t know the material – it’s that he’s too distracted to care. Coming up is Louis’ 21st birthday, and Harry is going to tell him. 

No one’s leaving, now. They’re at the same college. They’re both studying Education, for pete’s sake. It’s been three years since they took their one and only road trip, and Harry’s never forgotten what Louis said that night. He doesn’t even know if Louis remembers it, since they were baked. But he does.

“Well, that was shit,” Louis says, one arm crooked around Harry’s neck as they leave the lecture hall. “I’m gonna end up a sixth-year senior. I’ll be here as long as you are.”

Harry’s stomach flutters. “I’d be alright with that.”

“Yeah, I bet you would, little Harry.” Louis laughs, and everyone in the corridor looks up. He pats Harry’s cheek. “Where you off to? Want to drink in my room?”

“I can’t,” Harry says glumly. “I have one more final. I’ll come by after, if you’ll be there.”

“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t,” Louis sing-songs. “Maybe you’ll never see me again because you’re turning down my drink.”

“I know where you live,” Harry deadpans. “I’ll see you later.”

The truth is, all of Harry’s finals are finished. He just needs a little time alone to get up his nerve. It’s been eighteen years, and obviously Louis _must know_ , because he isn’t stupid, but they’ve been reunited for a whole semester and Louis hasn’t made a move.

Louis turns one way to go back to the dorms, but once Harry’s sure that he’s gone, he swings around to dart into the student post office. In addition to the explanation in the form of a soppy poem and card that he wrote after finishing his Ways of Reading test on Tuesday, he’d written home to Mum and asked for her to get the packet of cards and construction paper from the bottom of his toy box, and if it hasn’t arrived by today, his whole plan will be ruined. 

Maybe it’s a little bit childish, and maybe it’s a little bit _Love, Actually_. It might be a big old babyish mistake. But it’s something that Harry wants so badly it warms his chest like a California night. 

He’s turned in his ticket at the window when a hand falls on his shoulder and Harry jumps.

“What’s this?” Louis asks. “My little Harry _lied_ to me about his whereabouts?”

 _Fuck._ “I didn’t lie, exactly,” Harry says. “I might be on my way to a final, you know.”

The bells ring outside, signaling the start of an exam period. Louis raises his eyebrows.

“Okay, I lied.”

“Sorry, Mr… Styles,” says the clerk, returning. “There’s no package in your box today. Did you get a notification on your campus e-mail?”

Harry shakes his head, crestfallen. Everything’s ruined. “No, but I thought I could head it off. Sorry.”

The window snaps shut as the line feeds forward for the next ticket to be handed through.

“What’s up?” Louis presses, still following Harry. “What are you waiting to get?”

“Nothing,” Harry says. His eyes feel embarrassingly wet. “Doesn’t matter. Did you say you had alcohol in your room? I’d like some alcohol.”

“No, no, no, that ship’s sailed,” Louis says. “When you lied to me, little Harry. I’ll buy you a milkshake and some French fries, though.”

Louis leaves his hand on Harry’s shoulder all the way to the outpost dining on the quad. It’s just beginning to snow, tiny, almost-invisible flakes that melt as soon as they hit noses and lips but cling to eyelashes and the flyaway curls of Harry’s hair. Once they duck inside, Louis is still shivering, so Harry shoulders off his long pea coat and drapes it over Louis’ shoulders. It’s so oversize on him that he looks a little like a movie pirate.

Louis sniffs. “You still aren’t forgiven.” He orders the fries and shakes on his own dining card, anyway. They snag a booth by the windows that’s been left empty because of all of the finals happening across campus, and Harry slides onto his side with a heavy heart.

“So.” Louis pours the fries out over his red tray. “What was coming in the mail you didn’t want me to see? Was it something embarrassing? Was it a vibrator?”

Harry splutters a laugh. “No! Why would you ask that?”

“You never know who might have a vibrator,” Louis says wisely. “I don’t make assumptions.”

Harry rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his shake. 

“Do you remember when you used to tag along with me and Hannah for meals like this?” Louis asks cautiously. “And that friend of hers?”

“Stacey,” Harry supplies. “Yeah.” He pauses. “Why did you keep inviting me? I obviously didn’t like her that way.”

Louis’ eyes go a little soft and he looks down at his shake. “I guess I just wanted to keep an eye on you. It didn’t feel right going out without you.”

Harry swallows and pushes away his end of the fry tray. “Louis? Do you remember what you said when we went on that road trip?”

“When? I said a lot of things.”

Harry serves Louis with a knowing look. “You know when, Louis. Be serious.”

An eternity passes before Louis nods, both of his hands busy with rolling the straw wrapper into tiny balls and tearing apart a French fry. 

Harry reaches out and stills Louis’ hands with his own. “Well, I remember it, too.” The card in his backpack goes forgotten as he adds, “I remember probably everything you’ve ever said to me.”

 **01.**  
Louis’ twenty-fifth birthday begins with something of a temper tantrum and fades into Louis refusing to get out of their bed all day on account of, in order, arthritis, Alzheimer’s, balding, menopause, and varicose veins. 

“Come here,” Harry argues, pulling fruitlessly on Louis’ wrists. “You do not need dentures. Come downstairs.”

“No,” Louis whines. “I’m too old to walk. I need one of those chairs you can ride up and down the bannister.”

“I’ll ride _you_ up and down the bannister if you come downstairs,” Harry wheedles.

Louis just grunts. “Fine.”

The living room of their small house has been plastered with photos of their lives – their life, really, their shared life from the very beginning – on a garland sweeping over every wall and in a canopy over the ceiling. Each picture is different; mostly Harry and Louis, but some have Gemma, or Niall, or other friends they’ve had along the way. A birthday cake, vanilla with chocolate icing and blue candles, waits on the coffee table, and behind it glows their Christmas tree, resplendent in white lights.

“Harry?”

Harry just steers Louis to sit near his cake and in front of the tree. He reaches beneath it to pull out a stack of red tartan envelopes.

Louis smiles, giving Harry one raised eyebrow. He opens the first and a weathered old triangle of blue construction paper and eye shadow falls out. 

_WARRУ CHRi_ s  
T  
mAS

“Who’s this from?” Louis asks, smiling down at it.

“Me,” Harry says. “I made it when I was three, but I never sent it to you. I wish I’d said it back then.”

The next envelope showers silver glitter all over Louis’ lap when he tears it open, and the snowflake inside looks much chunkier and amateur than Harry had remembered it being.

“That’s from first grade,” Harry explains. “And I never sent it. I wish I’d given you that back then.”

One by one, Louis opens the old, unsent cards from Harry, each one wishing him a _happy birthday_ and _Merry Christmas_. A few make his eyes a little teary. A few make Harry’s eyes shine, too.

When he’s finished with the letter that Harry composed the first time he’d conspired to use these old pieces of paper, he looks up to see Harry on one knee in front of his birthday cake, their shared tree.

“Harry?”

“Happy birthday,” Harry says. He opens a card that pops up with a heart bearing the question, _Marry Christmas?_

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


End file.
